


Maybe Tomorrow (You'll Tell Him)

by thatwritertype



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Daydreaming, Fantasizing, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining, Pining Sherlock, Pre-Slash, Sherlock Being an Idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 05:04:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatwritertype/pseuds/thatwritertype
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Unfortunately, I don't own any of it.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Maybe Tomorrow (You'll Tell Him)

**Author's Note:**

> Unfortunately, I don't own any of it.

You want to pad through the kitchen as he stands indecisive at the fridge and put your hands on his shoulders. You want to fold yourself around him and rest your chin on his collarbone, rubbing your stubble gently against the sensitive skin of his neck. You want to press kisses to the skin that covers his delicate trachea until his head tips back. You want to nibble at his thyroid cartilage—his Adam’s apple—until you coax moans out from between his lovely lips. You want him to spin in your arms and grasp handfuls of your hair and stroke your neck, and later when he emerges from your bedroom for a glass of water you want to hear his soft laugh when he sees that you both forgot to close the refrigerator door.

You want to press him back against the wall in Mrs. Hudson’s entryway and unzip both your flies and take you both in hand, pressed together, groans melting into giggles at the sheer delight and danger of what you are doing. When you’re spent, you want him to grasp your hand and lead you upstairs to wrap you in your pajamas and settle you on the sofa for a long cuddle and a film.

You want to find his sister and guide her out of addiction like someone did for you once upon a time. You want to see the lessening of the downward turn of his mouth and the dissipation of the brusque sadness that you know comes from fear of losing the one remaining member of his family.

You want to bring him things, to shower him with gifts every time you see something that reminds you of him—though you realize that if you were to do that, you’d easily bring half of London home in gift boxes. 

You want to wake at four-thirty in the morning to the sad whimpering you know accompanies his nightmares. You want to tuck yourself protectively around him and brush light kisses over his tense features until he slips back into peaceful sleep. 

You want to combine all the snippets of all the most beautiful declarations of affection in history—despite what he seems to think, you haven’t deleted all the literature you’ve ever read, merely compartmentalized it. How ardently I love and admire you/More lovely and more temperate/You are my equal and my likeness/You pierce my soul/How do I love thee? Let me count the ways/You are my North, my South, my East and West, my working week and my Sunday rest…

You want to sit next to him at the symphony, fingers intertwined.

You want to steal bites of takeaway and sips of tea from each other.

You want to feel the precious, precious insides of him clench around you as you push into him, his heels cinched high on your body, and you want to gulp down the breathy keening cries you know he makes when he comes. And then you want him to stroke your back in rhythm with your thrusts as he murmurs words you won’t remember later as he catches the sounds of your love with his lips and tongue.

You want to sweep him into your arms and sway with him around the sitting room, wrapped up in each other and the safe comfort of home.

You want to wake up next to him on a summer morning someday years from now and make him toast spread with honey, courtesy of your bees. When he purposely smears some of it on his lip and chin and shoots you a coy, teasing smile, you want to lick away the golden stickiness on his golden skin and slide your fingers through his silver-gold hair.

You want to lay your head in his lap and feel his fingers stroke through your hair. You want to feel him tease your curls, scratch at your scalp, and you want the feeling of his hands in your hair to be the last sensation you’re aware of before you fall asleep.

You want to feel him push one finger carefully inside you, whispering reassurance and kissing your thigh until you get accustomed to the pressure. You want to hear his awed chuckle when you finally press yourself down on his finger in a wordless demand for more. You want to learn what it feels to be filled, surrounded, and made whole by him.

You want him to come home from work one day and find that you’ve cooked dinner for the two of you, with candles and wine and cloth napkins, and you want to sit down with him and watch his face for the softly-lit appreciation that will surely come. 

Maybe tomorrow, you think as you sit in your armchair listening to his nighttime routine. Maybe tomorrow you’ll push him up against the wall or the refrigerator or give him a peck on the forehead as you pass by his seat. Maybe tomorrow you’ll put a note on his pillow or send him an email or compose a text for him. 

Maybe tomorrow you’ll sweep him up in the chilly London drizzle and kiss the rain from his warm lips. Maybe you’ll feel him melt against you and cup your skull in his hands like you’re something precious to be handled with care. Maybe when you finally pull apart you’ll look at each other for just a moment before dissolving into joyful giggles with your foreheads pressed together and make your way back home hand-in-hand.

Maybe tomorrow, you muse, thinking of him curled in on himself in sleep upstairs. 

Maybe tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> The works quoted are "Pride and Prejudice" by Austen; Sonnet 18 by Shakespeare; "Jane Eyre" by Charlotte Bronte; "Persuasion" by Austen; Sonnet 43 by Barrett Browning; and "Stop all the clocks" by Auden.
> 
> Comments make my heart sing.


End file.
